


Simulacrum

by stepOnMeZenos



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Hythlodaeus (Final Fantasy XIV)-centric, Patch 5.0: Shadowbringers Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stepOnMeZenos/pseuds/stepOnMeZenos
Summary: A day in the life of an illusion known as Hythlodaeus.
Kudos: 19





	Simulacrum

It makes for an odd existence, knowing that one is naught more than a projection born of the mind of a lonely ancient soul. 

Hythlodaeus rises, as he does every morning. He prepares breakfast made up of food that he knows isn't real, performs his usual hygiene routine though he is fully aware that he can no more get clean than dirty and finally dons the mask and cloak. 

Like a wind-up doll, freshly summoned from a concept vessel. Even his knowing the truth of the situation he found himself in is part of his creator's design, though he suspects an unconscious one. If he were real, perhaps he would be upset at his predicament. A real person would be distressed at being made to dance on another's string with no recourse.

He is not a real person, however. Emet-Selch has not created the projection that makes up his entire self with the ability to feel such things. 

He leaves his home and ventures out into the streets. They are perhaps cleaner even than they were when Amaurot still existed. In Emet-Selch's dream, no impurities are permitted. Close to perfect though the real Amaurot had been, his imagination eclipses reality. 

On the way to his workplace, he greets Lethe, his neighbour. It's always the same dialogue. A polite greeting, an inquiry about their wellbeing, pleasant idle chatter. Hythlodaeus doesn't grow bored of it, nor does it bother him that he knows they are both simply playing their roles. 

They are capable of responding to new circumstances, he thinks, though down here in the reanimated ruins of Amaurot, such things are rare. Emet-Selch has fashioned them to respond much like their dead counterparts to the best of his abilities, but even he cannot create souls or life. Even he has to content himself with creating simulations that will always respond the same when faced with the same stimulus.

Still, it _is_ impressive how lifelike this dream is. If a stranger were to visit, they might not even be able to tell that none of it is real. 

He stops to exchange a few words with acquaintances here and there. This is less regular than conversing with his neighbour. Lethe's own routine intersects with his own regularly, as they are both compelled to go about their daily business at about the same time on most days, but many of these projections have schedules more varied. Thus, he does not see them every day. 

They tell him of their lives, the little anecdotes of domesticity that occur day after day, and he responds in ways that are… natural, for lack of better word. It is as he would have responded, were he still alive, he thinks. Hades truly knows him well, to have created such an accurate copy. 

He wonders if those he speaks to are as true to their originals. That is something he lacks the insight to judge even now. 

The bureau of the architect comes into sight. Though he knows that none of the work he does there matters in the end; that it ultimately is merely busywork, he looks forward to it. He enjoys his work (or enjoy _ed_ it, perhaps; can he still enjoy things in the state he is in? Is it genuine enjoyment if he is programmed to feel it?) 

He enters the building and heads up to his office. It's a well-lit and spacious room, like everything in Amaurot is, but it isn't, of course, particularly special as far as Amaurotine offices go. A large desk covered in papers, with a comfortable chair adjusted to his height. There's a window through which he can overlook the city, though he can't lose himself in the sight, of course. He has work to do. 

He settles down and pulls a stack of papers towards himself. As far as paperwork in the bureau of the architect goes, nothing about them is unusual. It's everyday work, for him. In fact, some of these requests have come in every day since Emet-Selch created his projected existence. 

A simulation that responds to the same stimulus with the same output. The same needs every day lead to the same forms being filled out every day. 

He answers them dutifully anyroad. After all, that is the stimulus he has been given. 

Afterwards, he decides to take lunch early. As usual, his steps lead him to a particular eatery not far from the office. There is a limit to how finely detailed Emet-Selch could make the simulation, and so he goes for the food his friend considered his favourite day after day, without ever getting sick of eating it. The owners of the restaurant, for their part, don't seem to realise that it is strange to have the same guests every day. Hythlodaeus has noticed that keeping track of the time that passes is something the simulations have a hard time with. Himself included. He does not know how long it has been since he has been created. 

He eats. He likes his food, the same way he likes it every day. If Emet-Selch was wrong about the food he enjoys, if he had programmed him to eat his least favourite meal in the world, would he still savour it like this? Would he even know?

He finishes and returns to his work. Afterwards, he goes to meet another friend. He does that once a week now, every week. Their conversation moves to the same topic it always moves to: the book his friend has finished reading, and will start reading again before the day is out.

Then Hythlodaeus goes home, fixes himself dinner and goes to bed. 

Tomorrow will bring the same, with but minor alterations. 

One day, Hythlodaeus notices something different. Routines disrupted, acquaintances saying different things. Word of peculiar strangers arriving in the city. Even if his own programming hadn't compelled him, he would have gone to see for himself… though it takes a while to find them. Amaurot was an enormous city, and Emet-Selch's projection is no different. Eventually, however, he idly wanders into the Bureau of the Secretariat and finds two twin souls that are markedly different from anyone else's in Amaurot.

He knows immediately that they must be the sundered people that he is aware of only because Emet-Selch thought he would realise. Nothing about his day to day life in this simulation of his home would have told him of them, or even of what happened to their world, and yet he knows, simply because Emet-Selch willed it so. 

The twins souls sit and wait for their name to be called. It's blatantly clear that the registrar doesn't see anything unusual about them, nor do the other Amaurotines present respond to their peculiar nature. He and he alone sees them for what they are. 

So he does what anyone in his situation would have. He approaches them and sits next to them on the bench. The one he can see clearly does not react very much. By now, they must surely be used to interacting with these spectres who pretend that everything is normal.

That changes quickly when he asks them whether they came from the outside, in Emet-Selch's wake. Their eyes—easily seen, since they do not wear a mask—widen as they look up at him. The distrust apparent in them is evidence enough that they are not on good terms with Emet-Selch.

That much makes sense. They would not want their world, sundered or not, lost to Emet-Selch's plans any more than the Amaurotines wished for theirs to end. 

He is quick to reassure them that he means them no harm, and that he is merely a shade, hovering at the edge of reality. It's strange that, despite inferring that this mortal opposes his creator, he feels no need to stop or impede them. In fact, he finds himself wishing them the best in the privacy of his own, mostly empty head. Perhaps it is the fact that they are the first real person he has met upon waking up in this half-existence. Emet-Selch has never visited him. Perhaps he could not bear to look at the empty shell that has taken the place of his old friend. 

Regardless of the reasons, he finds himself telling the stranger of the Final Days, and of the desperate deeds of the convocation to put an end to them. It's clear as crystal that his words catch them by surprise when he mentions how many lives were lost in the summonings of Zodiark and Hydaelyn. Emet-Selch hasn't divulged everything to them, then. 

Everything about this conversation almost serves to make him feel alive, real even. The routines that have established themselves as the simulation of the city plodded on are disrupted. Even he can't accurately predict what he will do when the mortal responds. It's refreshing.

At last, they are called up to the counter, and Hythlodaeus bids them farewell. He is but a shade. Whatever business they have with Emet-Selch is more important than speaking to him. However, as they walk away, he catches yet another glimpse of the twin soul, barely visible even to his keen sight. When he mentions it, the mortal takes a step back in surprise. So they are aware of it. Likely, they can communicate with it when nobody else can. He tells them they are two parts of one former whole, and that startles them even further. 

They are childlike, in a way, lacking the decorum and calmness of an adult Amaurotine, though they, too, are an adult of their own kind. Hythlodaeus almost wishes he could spend a little more time with them; perhaps take them under his wing, the way he would have with an inquisitive Amaurotine child, but he cannot. Though it would be in line with his programming, Emet-Selch's assessment of his personality also dictates that he would not mentor someone while stuck in this half-existing state. It wouldn't be right by them. They will find their answers on their own, guided by the living. 

When the receptionist calls for them once more, he quietly leaves while they are turned around. 

_Goodbye, little mortal_ , he thinks as he walks away from the building, to discuss what happened with his friends, apparently. _May you be more successful in saving your world than we were._

**Author's Note:**

> So I don't usually do this, but my fic idea machine somehow broke, apparently, which is inconvenient because none of my longer works in progress are ready to be worked on right now. With that in mind, you can leave fic ideas in the comment section here if you want, as long as you also say something about this fic in your comment as well. No smut ideas and no Emet-Selch/Warrior of Light, please. More detailed than just "write about this character" is better. 
> 
> (To be clear: I'm not taking requests and I'm not promising I'll do any or all ideas people give. If me skipping over your idea would make you feel bad, please refrain from giving it for your own sake.)


End file.
